


Where Is Your Doctor When You Need Him?

by Miss_L



Series: Killing My Darlings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Schmoop, and some more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is not immortal. Too bad Sherlock realizes that too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Is Your Doctor When You Need Him?

**Author's Note:**

> Idea suggested by the ever ~~buttfaced~~ lovely wendi-goh.tumblr.com  <3

Do you know what dying looks like in the movies? The unnecessary closure-providing kisses, the sudden love-confessions, the holding and listening to last words and a sound good-bye - for which there is always plenty of time? This was _nothing_ like the movies. And even if it had been, the finer points would have been lost on Sherlock, who has never been one for exorbitant sentimentality.

No, the reality was much simpler. A single shot to the head and John's brains were splattered all over the pavement. No fake blood. No clever scheme. It was crude, and simple, and ugly - no refinement at all. The only positive thing, perhaps, was that it had been quick. John had most likely not even felt the bullet before it stopped his brain. And his heart.

The reality of the situation was simple and it hit Sherlock so hard, he blacked out right then and there. _Perhaps the most melodramatic part of today's events,_ his brain managed before lights out.

Sherlock woke up in the St Bart's morgue - Mycroft knew better than to let him go to a hospital. Obviously. He was lying on a slab, and when he turned his head, he could see what was left of John's face on the other table. Molly was methodically cleaning him up, a worried and sad expression contorting her features, even though her hands were steady as ever. _Not that it's going to be an open-casket funeral anyway,_ Sherlock's mind suggested unhelpfully. His eyes never left his friend, but his brain was already racing. Deducing. Mycroft was nearby - he would recognize that atrocious eau de cologne anywhere. Mary has probably not yet been notified. Lestrade wasn't there, either - possibly tied up with paperwork.

The truth was, Sherlock thought bitterly and for once utterly honest with himself, he had thought himself invincible. And, by extension, he has also assumed his best friend to be invincible. Despite the threats, the injuries "in the line of duty", despite everything. He had thought John would always be there, quietly reassuring. No such luck.

He got up. Nobody spoke. No-one even looked at him. Sherlock took his coat and headed outside.

That night, there was a story on the news about a gang of thieves who had resisted arrest. One of them had shot a civilian dead during pursuit, and appeared to have died under strange circumstances in his holding cell. No more details were available at that time.


End file.
